The Toronto Nightclub Files
by pinkdormouse
Summary: Long before he was posted to Mexico, Sands was in Toronto, apparently working for a crime lord. Plantonic heterosexual (heterosocial) relationship, implied slash, swearing, drugs, violence, rock'n'roll. All chapters now up.
1. January 1994

**Toronto. January of '94**

Post New Year break-ups were always the worst. Most other times of year it was easy enough to pick up the pieces, throw - or give away - the ex's crap (Emily being the particular ex in question this time around) and then go out and find a replacement. But, this being January and thus cold wherever Marianne chose to spend it, going out was not very appealing. Plus there was the fact that she seemed to go through the same thing every year; girl (or boy) friend in December, single again by mid-January. Next year she would make sure she was single by December twentieth and stay that way until spring. That would show them.  
  
So, it was a night in alone with a crate of beer, a bag of skunk and a damn fine video collection. Who needed relationships anyway? Marianne stretched out on the sofa to wallow in nostalgia and put a little Marc in her heart.  
  
Shortly after midnight there was a buzz from the hallway. Which was odd, since none of the neighbours seemed exactly over-keen to antagonise six foot of biker-lady during the day, much less at a time when most of them were asleep in bed. Marianne knew her neighbours' sleeping habits from the anonymous notes she had got through the door in her first week living in the block, politely asking her not to play her records too loud after ten, or over-rev the Guzzi before six in the morning. The buzz sounded again. Must be important in that case; Marianne dropped her spliff into the 'Souvenir of Brighton' ashtray at her side and stood up.  
  
In the hall she paused to pull closed the door to the guest bedroom, and kick the velvet snake draught-excluder up against it. No need for her visitor to ask about the rather strong light coming from that particular room. She should have burned more incense though - even with the door shut the place still smelled like a dope farm.  
  
Marianne checked through the spy-hole. And what did you know? The gods had sent her a pixie. Well, that was all right then. She opened the door a couple of inches.  
  
"Bit late to come calling isn't it?"  
  
"You're Marianne," the pixie helpfully pointed out, trying very hard not to bounce. An over-stimulated pixie, so the gods had a sense of humour today.  
  
She opened the door a little wider to get a good look at him. She took in the over-sized pinstripe jacket, the faded Hawkwind T-shirt and the tight black jeans then frowned. Pixies were usually shorter - and with better dress sense - so just a regular guy then. Not-Pixie guy looked up at her and smiled.  
  
"It's snowing out there."  
  
Marianne looked at twin reflections of herself in the guy's shades and resisted the urge to neaten her plait a little. Now he mentioned it, he did seem rather damp - the lower half of his jeans even more than his hair and the length of black – no, dark green – silk – or was that chiffon? – keeping his hair scraped back into a ponytail.  
  
"So," she said, wondering if she was more stoned than she had thought, "you got into the block," (how had he managed that without calling ahead, when the security guy went off at eleven?) "and came all the way up to my flat to give me a weather report?"  
  
"Now that would be a little pointless, wouldn't it?" He pushed the door open still further and bounced past her into the flat.  
  
Marianne shrugged to herself and closed the door, then locked it and stuffed the keys in her pocket. Either he would prove to be entertaining or she would throw him back out and get her entertainment seeing if he bounced as well when dropped, as he was doing currently. She had this vague idea that she had seen him somewhere before, although not under any circumstances where she might have given him her address.  
  
"Did you want some dry clothes?" she asked, watching him hang his jacket over her one upright chair and then push it a little closer to the radiator.  
  
"Might be an idea." He dropped his gloves onto the seat of the chair then turned to face her. "And black, two sugars before you ask."  
  
"I only make coffee for people I know by name." Marianne sloped through to her bedroom, and tried to figure out what she had that might fit him. Which meant she was not throwing him straight back out, she thought. Better lend him an old pair of jeans though - and not any one of her favourite belts - just in case he did leave while wearing them.  
  
She returned to the living room and found the irritating little shit looking through one of her photo albums. He put it back on the shelf - in the wrong place, irritatingly enough. At least all the important stuff – the bass and its amp, her pool cue, and assorted weaponry – was safely in her bedroom away from inquisitive fingers.  
  
"Sands." He took the jeans and belt out of Marianne's arms. "I take it the bathroom's through that door?"  
  
Marianne nodded. She finally made the connection as to where she had seen the guy before - on the arm of her very own Dariel - although since when had Dariel started passing on friends' addresses to his boytoys?  
  
Maybe she should call Dariel and let him know she had the guy safely indoors. Or maybe not, since if Dariel's pets wanted to go wandering off, it was hardly her job to return them. Not when she was stoned and it was cold outside, anyway. Doing so in the morning would be a far better idea.  
  
To emphasise her point Marianne retrieved and relit the spliff, then headed for the galley - kitchen, she corrected herself - damn land-based living arrangements. Coffee was a good idea, now she thought about it. And if she was making some for herself she might as well make some for Sands, even if he seemed not to need any more caffeine right now. Speak of the devil...  
  
"So how did you end up here?" she asked, without turning to look at him.  
  
"Left the car two blocks away. I recognised the address and thought you might still be up."  
  
Marianne was sure that made some kind of sense to one of them, but obviously not to her.  
  
"And you were headed from where to where before that?"  
  
"From Dariel's place back to my hotel. I went to see him, he got called away, I got sick of waiting. Are you going to smoke all that?"  
  
"Yeah." Marianne picked up the two mugs of coffee and then walked past him and back to the sofa. Throwing him out was becoming more appealing again, but she would never hear the end of it from Dariel - assuming he wanted his toy back in the morning. And she had too many years of history with the Big Guy to go upsetting him over some minor annoyance, like the one currently rifling through her video collection.  
  
"What d'you think?" Sands asked, a few minutes later. "'Get Carter' or 'The Italian Job'?"  
  
"Which did you want to watch?" Obviously the chief pixie of Glam Rock would have to entertain her some other night instead. Time for another smoke, Marianne decided.  
  
"Well, 'Get Carter' obviously. Although, 'The Italian Job' does have Noel Coward, which suddenly appeals for some reason." He looked from the video case in one hand to that in the other, balancing them on his palms as if weighing them. "No, it has to be 'Get Carter'. Do you have any more chairs in this place?"  
  
"Nope." Marianne concentrated on skinning up.  
  
"Going to make room for me on the couch?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"So what am I supposed to do? Sit on the floor?"  
  
"You've got it." Marianne licked along the paper and sealed the spliff. "If you promise to sit quietly and watch the film, I might let you have some of this." If nothing else, she thought, getting Sands stoned would work against whatever else he had been taking. Hopefully.  
  
Sands set the video going then settled himself up against the side of the sofa. Marianne lit the spliff and took a long draw then dropped her hand down to offer it to Sands. He shifted around to take a draw on it, rubbing his cheek against the heel of her hand as he did so.  
  
"Good stuff. Dariel said you grew your own." Sands rubbed up against her hand again. "That right?"  
  
"Yeah." Marianne took her hand away, wondering if cat-boy would also purr when scritched behind the ear.  
  
"'S nice." He twisted around. "Are you sure there's no room on there for me?"  
  
"Quite sure." Firstly, Marianne never mixed her three worlds of Work, Totty and The Family. Sure, she would occasionally make drops for Dariel, if he booked them through the office and asked for her specifically. And if she saw someone enough times, then she might invite them along to one of Dariel's clubs. But playing with one of Dariel's boytoys was definitely not on any of her To Do lists. Secondly, she liked her girls petite and her guys built. Thirdly, there was something not quite right about this one and tomorrow, when she sobered up, she would either work it out or ask Dariel just what he was playing at.

--

Sands ended up on the sofa eventually. By the cunning ploy of offering to make coffee then sitting himself down at one end as Marianne sat up at the other to drink said coffee. Since he had now stopped bouncing, and she was now very stoned, there seemed little point in pushing him back off.  
  
And then a couple of minutes later, when Sands ended up sprawled across Marianne's lap, she just shrugged to herself and set about proving that, yes he did purr.

Pretty kitty might be tomcatting away from his sugar daddy, but – apart from the odd 'kiss me now' look, which Marianne carefully ignored – he was really quite well behaved. He knew all Caine's lines better than she did – in both films – and it was comforting to have a warm body up against her again. Even if the gun down his jeans dug into her legs the second time he tried to get up and make more coffee. That – and the number of cupboards she heard him open while the kettle was boiling – got added to the list of suspicious thoughts she was definitely telling Dariel about in the morning.

There was no need to call Dariel right now – wherever he was and whatever he was doing – he would not thank her for disturbing him so late. For all she knew he had another boytoy in another city. Which would be good going for an old guy – well, maybe not that old, but certainly very busy – but not unheard of. And she had locked the door so kitty would not be back out on the town without her say-so anyhow.

--

Marianne woke at ten then next morning, feeling surprisingly healthy considering how late she had gone to bed. Vaguely remembering that she had left cat-boy under a pile of blankets on the sofa, she made the effort to pull on T-shirt and boxers before leaving her bedroom.  
  
Sands was lying on the floor, surrounded by most of Marianne's 'Sandman' collection and drinking a thick shake. He twisted around and sat up, at which point she realised he had found Emily's 'Hello Kitty' T-shirt from somewhere. And he was still wearing Marianne's jeans with, she now realised, the most enormous turn-ups. Laughing at your houseguest, no matter how uninvited, was not friendly - but at least it took her mind off complaining about the state of disruption her living room had been reduced to.  
  
"I bought you breakfast," Sands said, pointing at the McDonald's bag on the table.  
  
"Thanks," Marianne said, wondering just how he had got in and out of the flat and then the block, when she knew exactly where both her keys and the spare set were and had been since the night before. He was bouncing again too. Still, at least she had time to eat breakfast before she was supposed to be at the depot. "Do you, uh, have to be anywhere today?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah, I need to go look at my car and see if it's retrievable or if I'm just going to report it stolen. I want the tapes out of the glove compartment either way."  
  
Marianne had a strange sinking feeling.  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"Well, there was this patch of ice, and this lamp post and..."  
  
"Your car or one of Dariel's? No, don't tell me, just tell me where you're staying and we'll get you back there." Marianne had lost her appetite. She was just going to have a long shower then get kitted up for work. She could leave Sands somewhere and then she was definitely calling Dariel to tell him not to let the boytoy sample any more of the merchandise.  
  
Not that she knew about the merchandise, obviously. She was a mostly-honest citizen who just happened to grow a few... interesting... plants, but who knew nothing at all about black-market import-export businesses. Oh, yeah, she had better check that Dariel knew the boytoy had a thing for breaking and entering. And pass on the rest of her suspicions too.  
  
Then, after work, she was going to the travel agent to book a flight back to London, where she would revert to her other name and settle back into her nice quiet life on the houseboat in Kingston. Yeah, it was cold on the Thames in January but at least that discouraged visitors.


	2. January 1994 Revisited

**Toronto. January of '94 (Revisited)**

Sands pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the borrowed - and he _was_ planning on giving it back - jacket, while simultaneously trying to shrug its collar higher around his ears. He was less than impressed with the weather, and very much of the opinion that he should get back inside sooner rather than later. But first he was going to complete the task in hand and find breakfast. The Tim Horton's he had passed had been closed - as had a couple of non-chain coffee shops - so his choice seemed to be limited to McDonalds or nothing.

Waiting in line he decided that, once this posting was over, he was going to have serious _Words_ (and that definitely merited a capital letter) with whoever it was that had come up with this assignment. So they had wanted him out of the way? Fine - he was too good for most of them anyhow. But it would hardly have busted anyone's balls to actually send him somewhere warm, now would it? Somewhere where the temperature did not stay below freezing for weeks on end, and where there was no ice to cause him to total one of his mark's beloved classic cars.

But then last night had been one bad idea after another...

"There you go," Dariel had said, throwing a small rectangle of intricately folded paper over to Sands. Who caught it, turned it over in his fingers and started to tease out a folded-under corner with his nail.

"So what's this then?" Sands asked, trying to maintain the balance between sounding too knowledgeable for his role, and acting too dumb to get any higher in the organisation than his current position. Which was mostly in the boss's bedroom, when he really wanted to be in the boardroom.

"Pink champagne - from Amsterdam, via Edinburgh. You said you liked speed when you were in England. This is very much better; or so I am told."

"I said that I did it once or twice - not quite the same thing." And that, although true, had been a stalling tactic - to maintain his cover as a two-bit hustler, while not actually snorting coke on Agency time.

"No need to take it now, if you would prefer not. But keep it for later," Dariel gave Sands an appraising - and possessive - look-over, "I have to go out for some hours. Will you be able to amuse yourself until I return?"

"Sure, whatever." Sands turned his attention back to the TV and began to flick through the movies currently showing. "D'you want me to wait up for you?"

"Perhaps." Dariel smiled. "If I am not back by midnight, assume that I shall be away until tomorrow. I shall, of course, make it up to you."

Sands smirked to himself as he heard the door close behind him. Playing toyboy to some pretentious gangster had a few - actually quite a lot of - advantages over other postings he could think of, but he really needed to start finding out some solid facts, before the folks back home noticed how much bullshit went into making up his reports.

With Dariel out of the way, Sands was able to help himself to the contents of both locked filing cabinets - finding little he did not know already - then he flicked through the desk diary in hope of finding details of meetings he had not managed to tag along to. No luck there either, although the block capital 'MARIANNE'S BIRTHDAY' on one page intrigued him more than a little. The name sounded familiar, but then he had been introduced to a myriad of people over New Year and since, so he went back through the files and found a series of receipts for 'Safe Drop Deliveries'. The courier for most had been one M. Dickenson - the same last name as Dariel. Odd, since his mark was neither the marrying-type, nor had he mentioned having any family this side of the Atlantic.

Sands did a little more searching and turned up an address, which he memorised for later. There was little worth watching on TV so he amused himself with alternately hacking files on Dariel's computer and playing Tetris.

--

Five before midnight and still no sign of his sugar-daddy - mark, Sands quickly corrected himself - which meant that he was stuck here by himself for the night. No decent movies showing - still - no one he could really call on this late, save for those who considered midnight early and would be in a club somewhere until much later. But, of course, he had free admission and an automatic queue-jump to any and all of Dariel's clubs. And none of the door or bar staff would be likely to go tell the boss man if his new companion turned up alone and left in company. Not if their palms were well greased.

He could try a little of the speed, saving the rest to submit for analysis with his next report, then call someone up to fetch him a car out of the garage and do a little recreational prowling by himself. If he was clever about it - and he generally was - he could even combine fun with a little more background searching on his mark. No, the evening was not going to be wasted by anyone's standards.

--

With hindsight, Sands thought as he headed back to Marianne's apartment, what he should have done was get one of Dariel's staff to drive him to a club. Then the Bearcat would have stayed in one piece - or at least got damaged through no way that could be blamed on _him_ - and he might have actually got laid.

Instead he had woken up on an unfamiliar couch in far less luxurious surroundings than he had gotten used to over the past month or so. Although he _had_ met Marianne - and she seemed to be a useful contact, assuming that she considered being bought breakfast an adequate apology for the night before. Then he could just figure out what he was going to tell Dariel about the car - and see if he could get a repeat invite to Marianne's place. Because the more she saw him around, the more she was likely to tell him about whatever she knew about how his mark's organisation actually worked.

Yeah, it had been far from a wasted night.


	3. April 1994

**Toronto. April of '94**

"Led Zeppelin," Sands said, uncurling himself from by Marianne's legs just enough to snag the joint from her. "'Gallows Pole' 'cause 'Stairway' is too much of a cliché even for you." He had become a frequent – if irregular – visitor to the apartment over the past two months. Marianne had mentioned her concerns about the boytoy to Dariel, who had seemed unconcerned for the most part. He had hinted at knowing more about Sands than he was letting on right now – and pointed out that if she wanted to give out advice, then she should take a greater interest in the business as a whole first.

At which point she had dropped her bombshell - that she was leaving for London, and not coming back – and somehow Dariel had talked her around 'at least until the summer'. So she had gone home to Europe long enough to check up on the houseboat on the Thames; and to visit Paris to convince herself that she was not ready to purchase one on the Seine just yet. Then she had returned to Toronto and found that Sands was still installed in Dariel's offices and living quarters - and still as irritating in that not-quite-definable way.

"I don't do requests." Marianne had already had her quiet evening in with her bass interrupted, when Sands had turned up on the doorstep half an hour earlier, and she was trying to ignore him as much as possible. He was looking particularly strung-out, but that was none of her concern; Dariel must know that the boytoy had seemingly switched from speed to coke by now, if only because speed was damnably hard to get hold of in this town right now. But then Sands was most likely getting his coke off Dariel too; why should he buy it elsewhere when the Big Guy would give it him at cost?

"I'll make coffee," Sands took a long draw, and then smiled up at her. At least she had not caught him cutting lines in her bathroom yet – a gal had to have limits – that would definitely be grounds for dropping him down the stairwell. Not that she was completely against doing the stuff - she would indulge occasionally at parties – but there were Rules about what a person did in mixed company, and what a person did when dropping in on another unannounced.

"Why do you come round here?" Marianne set the bass down on the floor, leaning it against the arm of the sofa. She had no idea what she could be doing that might encourage him. But she kept on letting him in because she was a sucker: in love with a guy she could never have, while his current lover trampled all over her and treated her flat like _he_ owned it. Although Sands did have _some_ endearing features, she had to admit.

"Dariel's out of town again and I happen to like your company." Somehow Sands managed to end up on the other end of the sofa before she had a chance to stretch out along it. Oh yes, she had been smoking before he turned up, that would explain the slower reactions on her part.

"I find that hard to believe." Marianne reached over and reclaimed the joint.

"Really? I could have sworn I heard him telling you he was going." Sands rolled onto his side, ending up with his head in Marianne's lap - as per bloody usual – she really should push him onto the floor, but just could not summon the energy.

"I meant the other half of your statement." Admittedly he was less trouble than an actual cat – most of the time – and she was doing Dariel a favour by keeping his pet out of trouble. But really, she would be just as happy without any pets, even those who knew to stay away when she had proper guests over.

"You know you love me really." Sands bounced to his feet. "Let me make you that coffee."

"Sure, coffee's good."

Marianne thought about things some more while Sands was out of the room. He certainly seemed to make Dariel happy – happier than the Big Guy had been for some time – and he had stuck around longer than the average freeloading hustler. Plus he seemed interested in the Business, which kept Dariel off Marianne's back about her getting more involved in it.

On the minus side, Sands asked a few too many questions, was quite capable of letting himself into or out of the flat without a key, and seemed to be covering up the fact that he understood French perfectly. Which was annoying when she got calls from Paris while he was around. Still, she was going to catch him out one day, she was sure of it.

Sands set the coffee down on the table and settled back down on the sofa. Marianne leaned across him to grind out the last of the joint; then ran a hand down his back, expecting the usual purr. He winced.

"Been playing rough again?" She tried not to sound disapproving - being an entirely-vanilla gal herself - but she really wished Dariel would play a little more carefully with his toys.

"You could say that." Sands shifted to look up at her. "You know, before Dariel I never – well, not in the same way." He paused, seemed to think about what he was saying. Then he glared at her, daring her to make something out of what he had just let slip. "Going to make another joint then?"

"If you shift out of the way." Marianne suspected she had just been treated to the real Sands, whoever he was. She still had no idea whether he was genuinely interested in Dariel, or just another hustler, or some other breed of trouble entirely. Come to think of it, she had no idea whether Sands was a real name, a nickname he had gone by elsewhere or something he had come up with specially for Dariel. Ah, well, so long as the Big Guy had set up a good 'insurance package' for when things went pear-shaped. There was really nothing more she could do about it herself. Besides it would be summer soon enough and then she really might move on this time.

Sands sat up.

"You know," he said, "I think we should do something different tonight."

"What, instead of getting wrecked and you ending up sleeping on the sofa? Going to suggest something?"

"Mixed strip-club. There's one in town that Dariel's thinking of making a move on. What say we go check it out for him?"

"You know," Marianne said, deliberately echoing Sands, "you may have an idea there. Give me five minutes to change." And find offensive weaponry – if Dariel was planning a take-over of the club, then the owners might be hostile to his inner circle. Best to be prepared in case she or the boytoy landed themselves in hot water there.


	4. June 1994

**Toronto, June 1994**  
  
"You _do_ know how to handle one of these don't you, pretty?" Mylo ended the question on a sneer.  
  
Sands bit back any answers involving weapons training and stupidly high scores. He took the gun in his gloved hand, and made a show of examining it carefully.  
  
"Dariel's seen me shoot and _he's_ satisfied. With me, anyhow: if he was happy with you guys he'd hardly have sent along an observer, now would he?"  
  
Mylo's lip curled again, but he said nothing more as he turned to speak to the next man in the line. Good. The Scorpions were a strange bunch - queer bikers, black bikers, ex-pat Europeans on phoney visas, former mercenaries from half a dozen central African republics - but they were loyal and efficient, which was what Dariel liked about them. Sands knew that it was only half true that he had been sent along to observe the gang in action - they would be watching him as well. But he was not supposed to know that, even though it was another step up in the ladder of the organisation he was integrating into so well.  
  
Sands slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. It felt good to be seeing some proper action again, instead of digging through records and filing reports, both for and about Dariel, although the latter were less detailed - and contained more bullshit - than the former. He had found little to prove that Dariel was involved in government corruption - or that he had any great plans to shift his business to the US - and was starting to wonder if he would be better doing this for real than going back to the Agency when they recalled him.  
  
"You ready, there?" Mylo asked. "And you'd better be as good as you think you are, because no way am I explaining to your Daddy how come his brat got all broken."  
  
Times like these it was downright impossible to stay in character. Sands swung at him.  
  
Mylo sidestepped the blow, catching Sands' wrist and using it to twist his arm up behind his back.  
  
"So the pretty's got fight in him after all." He was almost as tall as Dariel, but more compactly muscled and a good two decades younger. They were close enough to kiss - if you found engine grease, sweat and patchouli erotic. Sands prided himself on more refined tastes; except maybe for the patchouli. Dariel liked patchouli.  
  
Sands resisted the urge to twist out of the hold - they needed him in one piece for the fight - and simply glanced over at Nils, Mylo's significant other.  
  
"I don't see anyone making assumptions about _his_ fighting abilities."  
  
Nils took a step towards them, drawing a fancy-looking bowie knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh.  
  
"That's because they've all seen me fight. Mylo, you can play with that later. We've got business to attend to."  
  
Mylo let go of Sands arm and turned to follow Nils, who had resheathed his knife and was stalking into the garage where the bikes were parked.  
  
"You can ride up behind him, seeing as he's determined to protect you."  
  
Sands could see some interesting arguments taking place between those two later. He suppressed a smirk and headed out to the garage.  
  


--

  
  
He felt good. And for once the adrenaline coursing through his system was naturally induced - Sands had not been able to say that for what felt like months. Well, not outside of the bedroom anyhow. Once this assignment was over he was going to demand at least two weeks' holiday, and then find some out of the way spot for a little rehab and detox. Not that he had a _ problem_ as such - he was doing more coke than was healthy, but nothing he would not be able to quit just like that if he was away from it for a few days. Besides, it was all part of the cover, not something he would do unless he were pretending to be someone else.  
  
Or maybe he would just skip out on everyone. He was close to cracking Dariel's accounting system, and once he had, then he could take enough to set himself up, but not enough to make Dariel mad enough to track him down. The Caribbean would be as good a place to go as any; he could hole-up somewhere quiet for a couple of weeks first - for that self-enforced rehab he was going to need - then he would get on with doing whatever the hell he wanted, with no one breathing down his neck about proper procedure.  
  
"Not coming with us?" He stepped back from the bike and looked at Nils.  
  
Nils shook his head.  
  
"Someone has to watch the bikes."  
  
"This wouldn't be you ducking out of a fight would it?" Sands started to smirk, then quickly suppressed it. It was probably not a good idea to antagonise the only gang member who seemed to be on his side. "No, you're right - it's a good idea to leave one fighter out here guarding our getaway. This would be me going then." He turned and jogged to catch up with the others.  
  
The others had been waiting for him by the main entrance to the old factory, the only one not boarded up Mylo looked around the group as Sands came to a halt. All readied their weapons. Mylo nodded to an even bigger bastard of a biker, who shouldered the door open, then stepped aside to let the group thunder past him.  
  
Sands held back to start with, loosing off a few rounds every time he had a clear view of the enemy, but not really getting involved in the thick of the brawling. He was an observer after all.  
  
Their targets had been caught unaware, and were outnumbered it would seem. Within seconds of the Scorpions' entrance, all were bristling with weapons, some improvised, others distinctly not. Sands ducked into an alcove - he could hardly report back from the ICU, now could he?  
  
But he was too fired up to keep out for long. He reloaded his gun, checking that the one no one else knew about was still in his pocket. Then he rocked forward on the balls of his feet, trying to judge where the main action was coming from. He ducked out and loosed off around towards an unfamiliar back. That had better be one of the opposition. Hell, no one expected great things of him in his first gang raid did they?  
  
He swivelled, looking for a new target and was grabbed by the collar of his jacket from behind. Hey, no fair picking on the shortest guy. Obviously no one had spelled the rules out to these guys. Sands would have to fight up close and dirty after all.  
  
He jabbed backwards with his elbow, contacted something soft and was free again. He spun and loosed off a volley of shots that propelled the man into the wall. Definitely one of the unfriendlies. Sands fired a couple more rounds to be certain.  
  
What the hell, he was going to get beat up and dirty whether or not he joined the fray. He dived into the thick of things.  
  
The rest of the fight was a blur - literally as well after the curtains caught fire. Eventually the only sounds of fighting were those coming from another room. Sands picked his way through the fallen - living and corpses - and found what he assumed had passed for the cook house.  
  
Mylo was - well the word was probably 'interrogating' - one of the few of their enemy still vaguely with it. Sands holstered his gun and strolled in.  
  
"Do you have to do that?"  
  
"We need to know the combination to the safe."  
  
"Do we now? Wouldn't it be simpler to let him speak once in a while?"  
  
Mylo let the man's head fall forward onto his chest.  
  
"That's better," Sands said. "Now, are you going to play nice and tell us the combination of the safe?"  
  
The man looked up at him. Sands cursed his luck as he realised it was the guy he had paid, not too handsomely, for information on Dariel some seven months ago. This could compromise a few things. He drew his gun.  
  
"Well? What's the combination?" He just hoped that the guy realised he would as likely be shot for dropping Sands in it as for refusing to answer.  
  
"Thirty-four, six, eighteen." Mylo nodded to one of the others, who strode over to the safe and opened it. Then the man slumped forward, apparently unconscious, although Sands had a feeling the guy was faking it.  
  
"We all done here?" Sands asked. "'Cause I'd quite like to go back and get cleaned up."  
  
"Bloody Nancy Boy," someone muttered behind him.  
  
Sands spun round and levelled his gun at a random Scorpion.  
  
"Just remember who's paying us all. And who he listens to. Now, as I was saying..."  
  
Mylo cuffed the prisoner onto the floor. Well, he was probably out for the count now.  
  
Sands hung back as the others filed out. He slipped a hand into his pocket and screwed the silencer onto the barrel of his concealed gun. Then he turned and walked briskly back into the kitchen. His erstwhile informant had crawled into the corner. Sands stood over him, considered the matter, then plugged him between the eyes. Loose ends could be so inconvenient.  
  


--

  
  
Dariel was out of town for the weekend. It stood to reason - he needed to be seen to be busy with respectable business while others did his dirty work. But it did leave Sands with a small dilemma. He spent a good long time in the shower getting the smoke and blood out of his hair, but still he was on a roll. He needed more of a kick tonight, something that would top the afternoon's adventures. There was bound to be something going on around town tonight, some band or other playing, and Marianne would most likely know what was worth spending money on.  
  
But first he had other matters to attend to. There was a certain style about cutting lines on the black marble of Dariel's bathroom, especially when he used a gold credit card for the job. And he would never roll up any bill lower than a fifty. Not that he would be doing this much longer. Any day now he would have to make his mind up whether he was going back to the Agency or whether he would continue with his other, currently more enticing, plan.  



	5. June 1994 Revisited

**Lunchbox (June 1994 Revisited)**  
  
The heap of blankets on the sofa twitched. Marianne pressed a forefinger to mark her place in the comic and glanced over at it.  
  
"You wanting fed?"  
  
The pile of blankets moved some more to reveal dark hair and pale skin.  
  
"What time we get in last night?"  
  
"About an hour after the club shut."  
  
"So how come you're awake before me?"  
  
"Because I have the wisdom of age." Which translated to propping up the bar listening to music and letting the pretties come to her, rather than spending most of the night on the dance floor and about half the remainder in the toilets with some boy or other.  
  
Sands had appeared on her doorstep the previous evening high as a kite and sporting a black eye, a split lip and several other minor injuries. None of which had affected his vanity in any way, shape or form. In fact he had seemed rather too pleased about them. She had not dared to ask.  
  
Then in the club he had moved with a joie de vivre and self-assured confidence that had almost reminded her of Roal. There had been something about the way he had moved too. But Roal had never cheated on Dariel. Best not to dwell on the past, Marianne reminded herself, before the nostalgia trip could turn painful. She flipped the waffles out of the iron and added more batter. Then she returned to her comic.  
  
"So," Sands said, sitting up and dragging his jacket from the floor to his lap. "Did you say something about food?"  
  
"Waffles, bacon, syrup - and the coffee's just done now," Marianne said, abandoning her comic yet again to go pour two cups from the percolator. She took one over to Sands, then waited for him to finish rolling his first cigarette of the day. Well, if you took the view of day starting on waking, rather than at a minute after midnight anyway.  
  
Sands lit the cigarette then looked up at her.  
  
"That mine?" He took the mug and stared at the steam rising from it. "Did I leave a briefcase here last night? Before we headed out?"  
  
"Under the table."  
  
Sands put the mug down and dived onto the floor, managing to keep the cigarette out of harm's way. Marianne headed back to the galley - kitchen, she reminded herself as always - to check on the latest batch of waffles.  
  
"You know," Sands said as he opened the briefcase. "It looks a bit, well, empty."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"This. I put the money in to pay - "  
  
" - I don't need to know." Okay, so she had stayed in town because Dariel had asked, and because she was just a little curious as to how things would pan out between him and the pet. But she was still steering well clear of the Business.  
  
"That's as maybe. I still say ten grand looks lost in a briefcase this size."  
  
"Lower value bills?"  
  
"So I just walk into the bank and ask to change all these fifties for fives?"  
  
"Makes perfect sense to me."  
  
"Far too suspect. What I need," Sands said, looking around the room, "is a smaller case. "Like that one, for example."  
  
Marianne followed his gaze to the Batman lunchbox on the shelf above her stereo.  
  
"Oh, no, that was a present from Charlotte."  
  
"I thought you guys weren't seeing each other any more?"  
  
"That might be only temporary. If she was a genuine ex, I'd let you have it gladly. Like the T-shirts. And the cassettes. And all the other random crap that seems to have walked out of this flat lately."  
  
"Point taken." Sands stubbed his cigarette out. "What if I promise to get you another?"  
  
"No,"  
  
"Another and tickets for Ani Di Franco's next tour?"  
  
"Breakfast's ready." She would be able to think better once she was less hungry. After all, if she gave into him on this, what would she get talked into next?  



	6. August 1994

**Toronto, August 1994**  
  
Marianne leaned back in the chair, and put her feet up on Dariel's desk. She sipped at her brandy thoughtfully. Why Dariel had invited her tonight was beyond her grasp, as was why he had then asked her to stay in his office until needed. It was fine by her though. The party downstairs was purely for VIPs connected with the Business, and Marianne was not one to get involved with _that_ unless she absolutely had to. It was most likely that she would not be needed at all, so she pulled out her tobacco pouch and began to roll a joint, the stem of her brandy glass still slung loosely between her first and second fingers.  
  
Kitty swaggered in just after she had lit the joint. Impeccable timing as always, Marianne thought, the edges of her lips curling into what was not quite a smile.  
  
"Want some?" she said, almost automatically.  
  
"Thanks." He took it from her, and perched on the edge of the desk.  
  
He was high as a kite, as he always seemed to be these days, Marianne noted. Although she did also note that he looked damn good in a dinner suit. She herself was a little less formally dressed -- black silk shirt under a black cotton trouser suit -- with her hair in a single plait pinned up on her head. And she wore decorative-yet-practical ankle boots. Her jacket was long, with deep pockets, which were empty -- she had no need for money or ID tonight. Her apartment keys were in a side pocket of her bag. She could be a date for any guest on their lonesome, or backup for Dariel and Kitty, as need dictated. She suspected however that she would merely be staying up here all evening -- just in case.  
  
"So, Sands," Marianne said, as she took the joint back from him -- he might be high, but he had not drunk enough to answer to any of the other names she called him. "Who's Dariel entertaining tonight?"  
  
"Didn't think you'd be interested." Sands leaned forwards and took the joint out of Marianne's fingers.  
  
"He pulled in a whole big bunch of favours to get me to drop by tonight - of _course_ I'm interested. Not to mention the staying mostly-sober part. It's Saturday night - I should be out drinking."  
  
"Bunch of Russians and Italians -- something about a joint venture they're all planning." He handed the joint back, and bounced off the desk. "Better go -- he's got people he wants me to meet. Good dope though -- really took the edge off of my nerves." He swaggered out, truly Dariel's brat prince. And heir apparent, or so the rumours went. Not that Marianne wanted the inheritance herself -- oh, no -- but she would have thought Dariel could have found someone a little less interested in the merchandise to train up as his successor.  
  
The Cat-boy was cute, of course. But cute was as cute did -- and Marianne had had her fill of cute, but ultimately flaky, girls and boys. She would try talking sense into Dariel, yet again, on Monday morning. Maybe if she told him that the word in the bars was that Kitty was getting daily coke deliveries over and above what came in his pay package, then Dariel would see what a liability his boytoy was turning into.  
  
Marianne sighed, and ground out the remains of her joint. Then she placed her glass on the desk, and reached into the bag at her side to pull out one of her new comics. If she was going to be stuck up here all night, then she might as well keep herself occupied.  
  


--

  
  
There was a commotion from downstairs. Marianne froze, her finger on the panel she had been reading. Footfalls, shouts, muffled shots -- Marianne hurriedly stuffed the comic into her bag, and exchanged it for a pair of cotton gloves. Then she stood up, pulling on the gloves. There was a rifle leaning up against the filing cabinets, and an open box of shells on the top; Dariel had obviously been expecting trouble. Marianne transferred fistfuls of shells to her jacket pockets, then picked up the rifle and headed towards the noise. She loaded it as she went, which slowed her progress a little, but then charging straight in would only draw attention to herself.  
  
Dariel's office opened onto the metal walkway that ran all around the upper level of the club. From there Marianne could see what was happening below, but the lights all pointed downwards, so it would be much harder for those below to see her. The smoke machine was still running, blurring the action so she could see figures, but not instantly distinguish friend from foe. What she could do though, what she had learned to do all those years before, was to locate Dariel, and then pick off those firing on him.  
  
Dariel was in the centre of the dance-floor, his people circling closely around him. Others were ranged further afield, using whatever they could for cover. None of them expected any shots to come from above. She began picking them off -- standing still only for long enough to raise the rifle to her shoulder; and then take aim and fire, before moving again. She stalked around and about the walkway, the weight of the rifle, and the force of its recoil, slowly but surely taking its toll on her arms and shoulder.  
  
Each man she made sure to shoot in the head. When they went down, she wanted to be sure that they stayed down. That had always been her way, whether she had been shooting Dariel's rivals back in the East End, or shooting game in more civilised times. The men below were making excellent work of reducing each other's numbers, but it seemed that her body count was far, far higher.  
  
She was on an adrenaline high that took her far above that place where Kitty spent his days. What did it matter who or how many she killed? They were all criminals with more deaths to their tally than she had -- or would ever have, even after tonight. They were trying to kill Dariel, and that alone was reason enough to eliminate them.  
  
Finally the shooting stopped. Dariel -- miracle of miracles -- was still standing, although he looked to be the only one. Marianne took a breath, told her heart to stop hammering against her ribs quite so hard, then slowly descended the stairs to the main floor.  
  
Dariel looked straight at her. Then his gaze swept around the room and he shook his head. His head snapped back to where someone was still moving. A shape dragged itself off the floor. Marianne raised the rifle slightly, supporting the barrel as if preparing to take aim, even though she had not bothered to reload it after the last shot she had fired.  
  
"What the _fuck_ was that all about?" Sands' voice was shaking almost as much as his gun hand. He raised his gun to take aim at Dariel. "You set me up, didn't you?"  
  
Marianne started towards him. There was no time to reload now. She turned the rifle in her hands, judging its weight, and the momentum she could get up in her exhausted state. Then she heard the explosion from Sands' gun, an instant before she brought the barrel of her rifle down on the back of his head.  
  
Sands slumped back onto the floor. Marianne looked over to Dariel. He was dusting himself down as he crossed to the console that housed the main light control. The lights came up, and it was all she could do not to gasp at the carnage.  
  
"What the fuck happened?" she asked, realising as she said it that she was almost parroting Sands.  
  
Dariel gestured around the room.  
  
"Russians. Italians. Triads. Our local enforcers of law and order. It is a mess all right." He clapped Marianne on the back. "I suppose I ought to thank you. Do I get to welcome you back to the business?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet." He would need her now, almost as much as he had needed her after Roal's death. And this time she was old enough, strong enough, wise enough to be there for him.  
  
His hand was gone from her back already. Marianne looked around, and saw him crouched by Sands' body.  
  
"You hit him well there. But he should recover." Dariel shook his head. "This will take a lot of explaining. And the hardest part will be smoothing matters over with his superiors."  
  
"His sup -- " Marianne could not quite believe what she was hearing. "Who was he?"  
  
"CIA. A kind gesture of them to send me such a perfect present. I'm sure you agree?"  
  
"You _knew_?"  
  
"I am not so vain as some people might think. Why would a pretty young thing be interested in an old man like me, if not for my money? Or for something else I had?"  
  
"Yet you kept him around?"  
  
"He was entertaining. I wanted to see how long it would take for him to betray his employers." Dariel pulled Sands onto his lap, then sighed. "But now I suppose I should return him to them. There will be questions asked, of course, but I should be able to help him avoid too much of the blame for this unfortunate incident." He gestured around the room, then looked at her again. "You had better let me dispose of that gun. I shall arrange your alibi in the morning."  
  
The enormity of what had happened struck Marianne then.  
  
"Some of these guys were police," she said quietly, still not wanting to believe it.  
  
"That is... unfortunate," Dariel said. "I have always had such a good relationship with the authorities. Obviously whoever organised this raid was unaware of the various arrangements I have set up."  
  
"Arrangements?" Some of the jigsaw pieces were falling into place, but Marianne was unsure whether she liked the picture that was being revealed.  
  
"I'll explain in the morning," Dariel said, standing up with Sands in his arms. "Now, I think it is best if you leave. I shall arrange for the cleaning, and see that our friend here has not suffered any lasting damage. Then I need to talk with some of my contacts. It is a little late to disturb them, but I am sure under the circumstances -- "  
  
Marianne had heard enough. She dropped the rifle to the floor, then walked slowly back up to the office to retrieve her bag, and check her appearance, before beginning her walk home. There were cab firms where she had an account, but she needed the time, and the fresh air, to clear her head.  
  


--

  
  
**Postscript - Twelve Hours Later**  
  
Dariel put the phone down, feeling an emotion he almost recognised as worry. And he had thought that he no longer felt anything -- not since Roal's death. Marianne was still not answering his calls, nor was she replying to any of the messages he left on her answer machine. He knew that she had not left her apartment block -- the two men he had posted outside assured him of that. And she knew better than to panic, and do anything that might implicate herself, or Dariel, in the events of the previous night.  
  
After Marianne had walked out of the club, Dariel had rearranged the bodies himself, positioning one of the larger Russians at the top of the stairs, with Marianne's rifle in his hands. He had also redistribute some of the guns, making it harder for the police deaths to be pinned on anyone associated with him. After that he had gone home -- first checking that his alibi still held - taking Sands with him.  
  
And therein lay his other main problem. The massacre at the club was going to be costly to cover up, but money -- and time -- would be enough to cloud people's memories of the exact details. It had only taken one call to discover that the raid had been nothing to do with any of his usual contacts, and the bridges burned with the Russians and Italians might be rebuilt in years to come. The CIA, Dariel was certain, would want a lot more than money to keep off his back, and out of his operations.  
  
Over more than three decades, Dariel had forged and kept some very powerful contacts in first England, then Canada, and, later still, South America -- although those last were as shaky as their countries' governments. The United States however had always been uncertain territory, and he had hoped that Sands would rectify that discrepancy. Now Sands was suffering from concussion and cocaine withdrawal, both of which were almost certainly masking the more serious matter of a nervous breakdown. He was openly hostile towards Dariel -- and there was only so long that it was considered ethical to shoot someone up with diazepam.  
  
Feeling something rather akin to regret, Dariel picked up the handset of his phone and began to dial the number of a private clinic in Dallas.  



End file.
